


Aslant

by thehighwaywoman



Series: Tilted 'Verse [3]
Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blindness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehighwaywoman/pseuds/thehighwaywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared doesn't stop to think that Steve might know the answers to a great many of his questions. Not many people do. But there are quite a few things people don't know about Steve and what he keeps locked away inside - for one, the truth about Jensen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aslant

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LiveJournal, January 2008.

_Henrietta: What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?  
Luce: It never happens. If there's a thing that can't be stopped, it's not possible for there to be something else which can't be moved, and vice-versa. They can't both exist.   
("Imagine You & Me")_

*~*~* 

**Now:**

They're on their knees on the sodden beach, Hannah huddled in front of them, and things are never going to be the same again. 

Jared decides he'll think about that later. Right now, he's got an armful of terrified man and a dog to look out for; he's better off than they are if not by much, so it's on him to get them out of there. 

Trouble is, he's kinda lost here because he knows whatever comes next requires a delicate hand, and he doesn't have one to his name. Jared's never been great when it comes to precision work. Too eager, too curious, too clumsy, whatever. The one time when he tried to fix a watch, he ended up with gears and teeny-tiny springs strewn over his lap, with the second hands flying through the air, landing in an old cereal bowl. He kinda gave up on the watch rather than pick through soured milk and soggy Cheerios and since then, if he's near something broken or about to break anyway? He'll tip his hat and hit the door running, thanks. 

So why is he still hanging on to Jensen like he never _wants_ to let go, much less ever _will_? Kissing his face with small, cold presses of his lips, no pattern to it but where he happens to light -- cheeks, nose, eyelids, chin, forehead, licking away the icy rainwater; pushing Jen's head to his shoulder and kissing the top of his head, pushing his nose against his hair, seal-sleek and soaked to the scalp. 

Fuck it; he'll think about it later. Right now, Jen's half-frozen, Hannah's still panicking; he has to take action. It can't be too complicated an operation just getting them both back to the apartment, yeah? 

"Wanna go home with me?" he asks, pressing his lips over the middle of Jensen's ear so he can't misunderstand. He laughs for lack of any idea of what else to say as he tries to get them to their feet. Jensen worries him, the way he's far clumsier than Jared himself on most days, what isn't stiff and unbending hanging loose, reminding Jared of an old-fashioned wooden puppet tied together with strings. He manages, clumsily, to wrap Hannah's leash twice around his wrist. She's a good girl; she won't try run away when she knows he's got her. 

"Let's go home," he urges in Jensen's ear, testing their balance. Jensen doesn't cling to him, but he does push his head hard against Jared's and rest his hand, briefly, over Jared's chest. 

"Don't let go of me?" he thinks he hears in reply. 

"I won't," Jared says, though it scares him. "I won't." 

*~*~* 

**Thirty Minutes Ago:**

"Be careful on the roads, okay? They get nasty when it's raining this hard." 

"Duly noted." Alan waves backwards at Steve as he makes for the exit of Charlie's Horse, the half-tavern, half-café where Steve's worked for the past year. 

Charlie's Horse doesn't look like much, and Steve has to admit that it's not. It's a hole in the wall plastered with newspaper clippings, cartoons, mish-mash collages and filled with strange sand art. Cracked vinyl seats in the booths and scarred barstools, the remnants of the daily newspaper scattered around, and some guy sleeping it off on the couch by the bathroom. There's always some guy there; Charlie's Horse is open twenty/four seven and as Steve usually pulls graveyard shifts, he sees plenty of them shuffling in and out. 

The dive is more profitable than people would think, even in a shantytown this tiny and this dead in the off-season. It's where insomniacs can come to feed their habit and sit twitching in the corners, and where if your life sucks bad enough that you're drinking at four a.m., this is the place for you. 

Right now it's barely past dark, but Steve thinks Charlie's Horse makes the point for him. 

"Come back soon," Steve calls after Alan as a matter of course. It's what bartenders-slash-coffeetenders say when someone slopes out drunk or buzzed, more interested in the business than the company and thus a lie through his teeth. 

Usually. 

Alan turns, eyebrow quirked. His hair's cut at chin-length and forever getting in his face. "Maybe I will." 

The discreet buzz of Steve's cell phone, tucked in his left front pocket, gives him an excuse to nod at Alan in goodbye and turn his back. He checks the caller ID before answering even though on a night like this he already knows who'll be calling him at work -- who'd know he'd come in early, snagging the chance to make a few extra bucks. 

"Where the _fuck_ are you?" 

"Hey to you too, Chris." Steve balances the phone between ear and shoulder, because if it's already this pointless he might as well get some work done while he's being ranted at. He walks the length of the bar, gathering crumpled napkins and empty packets of sugar. The old scars striping his fingers protest when he tries to scrape a fragment of dried-out straw wrapper off the bar. They're a bitch when the weather turns. chafing first one hand and then the other. They're a bitch when the weather turns, but he doesn't fuss about them out loud. No one notices the marks but him. 

"-- I can't get there. You've gotta go." 

Steve realizes he zoned out for a minute somewhere in there, probably an important minute, although from the context he gets the general gist. Most of it. Chris wants him to skip out of work and go make sure Jensen's okay. 

"He's not answering his phone?" 

"You think I'd be callin' you up if he did?" 

_No,_ Steve thinks, but doesn't say. He tips his head to one side, imagining that he can hear the rain better this way, seeing in his mind's eye the stinging drops as they obliquely fall. _Gale force_. "And you can't get there why, now?" 

"Already told you. You got cotton in your ears?" 

"The connection's bad," Steve lies. 

Chris exhales heavily, his breath crackling over the line. Steve can see him in his mind's eye, pacing around the threadbare carpet, spearing his free hand through his hair, stopping to glare out the window, and starting the whole routine again. "There's some power lines fallen down in the street," he explains very slowly, as if he's talking to a child. "I learned how you get burned when you play with fire. Help me out here, Steve." 

Steve rubs his fingers, tracing over the old scars faded thin and white with time. He doesn't answer, not at first. Not soon enough for Chris. 

"Are you there?" 

"I'm here." 

"Well?" Chris doesn't wait for him to answer. "Don't you pull this shit on me again. Not now."   
He flexes his hands, working out the ache. "You're asking a lot of me, Chris." 

"I know, I know. Just… do this for me, okay? We get home later, or maybe in the morning, I'll thank you proper." 

The bitch of it is that he _will_ , and Steve's pretty sure it'll be worth saying "you're welcome" over. 

"Yeah," he replies, turning off the power switches on the Gaggia. "I'm on my way." 

*~*~* 

**Ten Years Ago:**

"Nuh-uh, man, no way. You ain't got the balls." 

Jensen tilts up the bottle of Maker's Mark they stole out of the liquor cupboard. It's about half-empty, though they've forgotten how full it was when they started drinking. He swigs, chokes, coughs and turns red. 

He punches Chris in the arm when Chris laughs until he's crimson, too. 

Steve reaches for the bottle and breathes through the burn as the contraband booze scorches his throat. 

"I do too," Jensen insists, a little wheezy. His green eyes sparkle crazily; he flops on his stomach in the hay and head-butts Chris's side. "Anything you can do, I can do better." 

Chris makes a face as if he's just swallowed something sour instead of the Maker's Mark. "You're listenin' to musicals now? What the fuck?" 

"Don't blame me. _His_ momma --" Jensen points at Steve, who shifts uncomfortably -- "plays that stuff all the time." 

Chris laughs harder, husky and raw-edged from all the booze; he points at them, nearly wheezing. 

"It's not that funny, fucker. Shut up. I can't tell her to turn it off. Besides, you recognized it. What's that make you?" 

"Luckier'n you two. I ain't gotta put up with worse than Hank Senior. Gimme that." Chris reaches for the bottle; Steve hands it to him. They're side-by-side-by-side in the old loft, their favorite place where they're not supposed to be. Their parents and such say it's dangerous. They don't care. They're eighteen, finally, all of them and Jensen too, and they can do any-damn-thing they please. 

As Chris drinks, Jensen noses into the crook of his arm. Chris scuffs up his hair -- it's getting too long again -- and chuckles to himself in between quaffs. 

Outside, the thunder rolls again, reminding them of what they were talking about before. Chris eyes the flashing white of the lightning strike that follows, his trademark devil's-son grin curling up his mouth. "Bet you don't have big enough nuts, after all," he goads. "You ain't got what it takes to chase a storm." 

*~*~* 

**Now:**

Jared's all but gone numb from the cold save for where the rain needles his skin. He stops, trying to readjust his hold on Jensen and re-tighten the dog leash where it's threatening to slip loose. The walk from the ocean to the house isn't that far, not really, covered in a couple of minutes at a run and wouldn't take five at a decent pace on a good day. Shouldn't even take ten in this kind of weather and lord knows Hannah's trying to hurry them home, tugging hard in an attempt to get them to hurry. 

But the closer they get to safety, the more Jensen just kind of shuts down. His face has gone strangely still, almost expressionless; he looks more like a wax mask than a person and to be frank it's creeping the shit out of Jared. 

He jostles Jensen carefully, then with more oomph, and gets almost nothing for his troubles. The reverb of Jensen's chest tells him he might have hmm'd or hitched, although any sound he might have made is lost in the falling rain. 

"You do realize I have no idea what I'm doing, right?" Jared bumps his chin on the top of Jensen's head. "So if you want to throw me a clue every now and then, yes please and thank you."   
Jensen's shoulders don't quite shake, more like twitch, but he pushes up into Jared's touch ever so briefly before sinking back down. 

The tightness eases in Jared's chest. Okay, so this is messed up big-time bad. He's still in the game. He gets a better grip on Jensen and doggedly walks forward, and if he's hauling Jensen more than walking beside him, well, he's a strong guy. He can carry Jen a while if he needs to. 

*~*~* 

No lamps are turned on in Jensen's apartment, although that's nothing out of the ordinary. He likes to have them burning sometimes, but if there's something distracting him he'll forget. 

Steve shrugs deeper into his windbreaker and shivers as he climbs the porch steps.   
He hammers on the door, remembering his assigned rhythm. "Jen?" he calls, careful not to sound anything but casual. Easy does it when it's storming. "Jen, it's Steve." He repeats the knock. "Mind if I come in for a while?" 

This would be the part where he waits for five, maybe ten minutes, freezing his nuts off in the cold late autumn rain. Before Jensen works up the nerve to see who's there. He's not usually that bad. Storms are different. 

Normally, this would be that part. Not tonight. Hannah barks from the direction opposite where she's supposed to be. He turns, squinting through the driving rain, and of all the things, here she comes, trailing that ridiculously tall drink of water behind her. Who's got Jensen's arm over his shoulder and more carrying him than helping him walk. 

"Jesus." Steve hurries toward them, catching Jensen's other side. "What happened?" 

Jared shakes his head. His bangs are plastered to his forehead in squiggly wet strands; he's got a set to his jaw that you could crack walnuts on. His lips are nearly white from cold. 

Okay. It can wait. "I've got you," he finds himself saying, relieving Jared's arm of Hannah's leash. "Get inside, both of you, okay?" 

Jared nods. Jensen doesn't say anything. 

Hannah whines. 

Steve does what he does most often and lends a hand where it's needed, helping push and pull Jensen on the porch. Jared, too. It's like trying to walk two mannequins at the same time, with Hannah the only one still energetic enough to make it on her own and enough oomph left over to busy herself with getting underfoot at every step. 

He tries to get Jared's attention. "Gotta get my keys out," he shouts over the increasingly loud drumming of the rain. "Will you be okay for a minute?" 

Jared laughs, shivery and without humor. "It's -- it's unlocked," he croaks. "Probably." 

_Probably unlocked. What's that supposed to mean?_ Steve tries the knob anyway. It turns smoothly as most things on the shore don't, the door opening without a sound on its well-oiled hinges. 

He wonders if he'll ever find out what happened, and figures "probably" not. 

"Almost there," he nearly misses Jared saying, teeth chattering between the words. He's tilted his head on top of Jensen's, rubbing his shoulder. "I've got you. Little further, okay?" 

Jensen closes his eyes -- he lost his smoked glasses somewhere -- and curls into Jared, away from Steve, hanging on with both arms. 

Steve pauses for a heartbeat. So that's how it is. 

"Go on," he says shortly, standing back and away from the door. "Don't let the heat out." 

Hannah barks and runs ahead. At least one of them has some sense. Steve shivers on the porch, old scars burning, water dripping in his eyes, until Jared's dragged Jensen inside, Jared pets Jensen every step of the way, whispering in his ears, stroking and calming him. 

Steve watches, pretending impassivity. It's a lie. He's seen this before, and he knows where it's going. The road most-often traveled by. See, everyone wants to protect Jensen. Wants to be the one to heal him, keep him safe, wrap him up so there's nothing to be afraid of ever again. 

The thing they don't get is that Jensen likes it in there, where he can hide. Maybe too much. Maybe enough that he won't ever climb out; Steve doesn't know. 

He shuts the door behind him and turns on a lamp. For Jared's sake. 

And his. 

*~*~* 

**Ten Years Ago:**

"What's that even mean, chasing a storm?" Steve scoffs, wrestling the bottle of Maker's Mark back from Chris, push coming to shove over control. Chris ends up with his head pillowed on Jen's stomach, Jen toying with his hair like it's a slumber party or something. He gets weird like that when he's drunk, as if Chris is Christy and a girl, or… something. 

"You live out here in where-the-fuck-ever Texas and you never raced the lightning before?" Chris scoffs. "Your education has been sorely neglected." He heaves himself up, deliberately-on-purpose elbowing Jensen in the gut. Standing, he's littered with bits of broken hay he doesn't bother brushing off. "Let's get on out there so I can show you how it's done." 

"Like you know." Steve brandishes the bottle. "You seriously want to go out in the middle of a storm? You're crazier'n I thought." 

"Live a little, man." Chris shadow-boxes him, Jensen scrambling to his feet behind him, forevermore his taller, somehow smaller-seeming, darker shadow. 

Jen dares Steve with the clear, piercing green of challenge in his eyes. "I'm going. We'll leave you out if you want, but you're missing all the fun." 

Steve snorts. "Serve you both right if you get hit or something." They _will_ leave him behind if he protests again, though -- it's happened before, and he's just drunk enough that he thinks he could do "reckless" right now. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? Chances are on their side. 

He drains the whiskey dry and throws the bottle into the corner of the loft, where it shatters, glass tinkling down on the hay. "Fine. Let's do this thing." 

*~*~* 

**Now:**

The first thing Hannah does once she's sniffed them all down and made sure they're safe? She shakes herself from nose to tail and showers them afresh with flying water that smells strongly of wet dog. 

"Stop it, girl." Jared pushes her aside, tugging affectionately on one ear. Then, he takes over, manhandling Jen himself until Jen's settled on his couch. He's in a bad way, white-lipped and shivering, his mind seeming focused somewhere deep inside himself while his body's a still, doing nothing but soaking the upholstery. Jared frowns uncertainly at him, chafing his own cold-white hands. 

Neither of them looks much better than a corpse, but when Jared opens his mouth, Steve knows he's not thinking a single thing about himself. All he cares about -- except maybe Hannah -- is fixing this, fixing Jen, and isn't that always the way? "Where does he keep his towels?" Jared asks. "Jensen, do you have a hair dryer? Maybe I could fix you something to eat. Steve?" 

Steve inclines his head slightly to acknowledge the renewed workings of Jared's near-eternal chatterbox muscles. "Sit there with him. I'll get the towels; we can start there." 

Jensen's apartment is built like a "shotgun shack", laid out on straight lines. Everything's neatly ordered, not a single trinket out of its place -- not that he has many of those. Steve brushes the pin box as he passes it, oddly pleased by the counter-prickle of their sharp ends on his tingling hand. He walks directly from the living room through the kitchen and beyond to Jen's bedroom and the bathroom beyond, tacked on the back of the house back when they started up that new-fangled indoor plumbing thing. It's an old shack as they go. You can stand at the front door and if curtains aren't pulled or nothing's in the way, see clear back to the porcelain toilet and the opaque glass of the walk-in shower. 

The linen closet was built inside the bedroom itself, more of a boxy intrusion than a convenience, but as pin-neat as everything else in the apartment. No need to rummage when it's all right there. He snags four thick terry towels, one with a Texas Hilton logo, and as an afterthought the crazy quilt folded across the bottom of Jensen's bed, and carries back his armful. 

Jared stands between Jensen and the front door. He's caught his lip between his teeth and looks to be in danger of gnawing it sore. When he hears Steve approach, he sags with relief. "There you are." 

Steve refrains from calling him an idiot -- he's had practice -- and pointing out that he was in Jared's line of sight the whole time, passing Jared two of the towels instead. "Dry off as best as you can," he directs. "Get out of your wet clothes." 

Jensen shivers but otherwise makes no response. Jared gapes at Steve. 

_For the love of God._ "I don't have designs on your maidenly virtue," Steve says. "You can't get dry otherwise. Go up to your own place and take care of it there, whatever, but if you're going to stay down here you'll catch your death standing around soaking wet."   
Jared shoots him a doubtful look, but toes off his sneakers all the same. Steve figured he would choose that over leaving Jen. It's good enough for a start. Steve drops the rest of the towels and the quilt and crouches at Jensen's feet, tapping his calf to let him know he's there. "Want me to help you? Stand up for me." 

Jensen doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't acknowledge him, just sits there hunched forward with his arms crossed over his chest; its rise and fall is barely visible. Hannah noses over, whining. She nudges him, copying Steve. Hannah's a strange one, sometimes smart as a whip and sometimes stubborn as an elderly mule. Usually sweet, though. That's how he came to acquire her in the first place -- too affectionate to complete her training as a guide dog. No way they could afford a real one. He figured, back then, that Hannah would do. Besides, she would've washed out and ended up in the pound if he hadn't taken her and tried to do his best. 

"Jensen." Steve prods harder, narrowly assessing how far inside himself he's vanished this time. There's nothing in his expression but blank emptiness, and that's not a good sign. "C'mon, now, " he coaxes. "Jen? Jen!" He tries a slap to Jensen's leg, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to warn. 

Hannah growls, not a threat, more of a warning. "Easy, girl," Jared says almost absently, scratching her head. He's skinned off several layers while Steve wasn't looking, dropping his hoodie and long T-shirt and short T-shirt on the floor, where they proceed to drip out spreading puddles of rainwater. More, besides being wet, he's sandy; Jared looks like he's wearing half the beach, Hannah took most of the rest, and Jensen got the leftovers. Jared grimaces as he undresses, brushing off a handful or three of caked-on sand. What doesn't splat on the clean floor in soggy clumps scatters everywhere, lodging between the boards. 

Jared shucks off his jeans with considerable effort -- wet denim is a sonofabitch -- and drags them off his feet as if he's moving on autopilot before returning, with purpose, to petting Hannah and uncertainly looking back and forth between Steve and Jensen. 

Steve is abruptly, completely sick of fighting Jensen's immobility when it's pretty clear he's not wanted. He sits back quietly and offers the job to the man who might just get it done, not because he has any greater skills and certainly less knowledge, but might have a shot at getting Jen to cooperate. "Jared, do me a favor, would you?" 

Jared looks at him, earnest and eager as if he's a pup, too. "Yeah, sure." 

"Help me get him to the shower? I don't think just a rub-down is going to be enough to warm him up. Shower would probably work better. That okay with you?" he asks, nudging Jensen's ankle.   
"Speak up now or forever hold it, pal." 

Jensen turns his face away from Steve, toward Jared. 

Jared, it seems, doesn't tend to pick up on anything but the blindingly obvious. He latches onto Steve's suggestion, clearly grateful at being given a task he can manage. "Yeah, a shower oughtta help. I think. Can you show me where the bathroom is?" 

"Walk straight back. You can't miss it." Steve relents. "I'll help. You get the one side, I'll get the other." 

"We're gonna move, buddy," Jared informs Jensen, like he's deaf as well as blind and stupid besides. He clumsily pats his way up Jensen's arm. "Want a shower?" 

Jensen shuts his eyes and leans back. 

"Jen," Steve says, a little too sharply. "Work with us, here." 

Jensen doesn't move or speak. 

Jared looks at Steve, worried now. He guesses it must look disturbing to someone who isn't used to this. "Something's wrong besides all -- all _this_ , isn't there?" he asks, gesturing at -- at the storm, Steve guesses. It's not really a question; he already knows the answer. 

_Not really, no. Yes, and you have no idea._ "He gets his heels dug in sometimes." Steve slaps Jensen's calf, not gentle at all this time. "Either you get up and get moving, or I'll carry you over my shoulder, or I'll make Jared do it." 

He's joking, but as soon as he's said it Jensen grabs Jared's wrist and hangs on as if for dear life, his chin coming up. 

"I, uh… I think he wants me to help him," Jared ventures. "If it's okay?" 

Yeah, this is the way it is, all right, and then some. Swell. 

"All right. Sure." Steve scrubs his hand over his mouth. "Whatever gets him in there faster. You too. As long as it all works out the same, I don't guess I care." 

Which is a lie, but sometimes there's not much point in telling the truth. 

*~*~* 

**Ten Years Ago:**

Chris throws his head back and hollers. He's still not quite wet enough for his hair to cling to his skull, and pieces of it fly out behind him, making him look like a wild man. They've run through the rain all the way from the ranch house to the ass-end of the pastures, and Chris is rarin' to run further still. "Whooo! Hurry up, you're gonna miss it!" 

The last of the broad, empty flat pastures beckon to them, spread out long and barren. Lightning spiderwebs across the sky. Chris swears he saw one bolt touch down not too long ago, and Steve believes him. 

"This is awesome," Jensen enthuses, bouncing on his heels. 

Steve believes _him_ , too. 

*~*~* 

**Now:**

_Thump._ "Ow, fuuck," he hears Jared moan. 

Steve, still in the main room, hears the stubbing noise all the way out there and winces in sympathy, making his best guess: "Found his hand weights, didn't you?" 

"Yep. With my toe." 

"That's gotta hurt." 

"No kidding." Jared swears quietly. "Jen, I didn't know you lifted weights." 

"We've all gotta stay in shape somehow." Steve props himself on the empty doorframe between kitchen and bedroom, watching their progress, Jared hauling Jensen along one bit at a time with an arm wrapped around his waist. Jen does appear to be contributing at least a little, walking under his own power even if he does have his face tucked against Jared's still-wet chest, and that's a small improvement. 

"Huh," Jared verbalizes, taking great care to skate his soggy sock feet rather than just galumph on through, careful of his "passenger". "This is it?" 

"Last port of call. Light switch is inside, next to the mirror." 

"That's a weird place for it." 

"Don't blame me. I didn't build the bathroom." Steve keeps a careful eye on them, but Jared seems to have gotten the knack of hauling Jensen around already, balancing him in one arm while he uses the other as called for. "Don't shut the door when you get him in there." 

"Don't shut the shower door?" 

"The bathroom door, Jared. It's best to watch out for him when he's not all together like that. He'll be shaken up for a while. Just let him do his thing. It'll pass." 

Jared looks deathly uncomfortable talking about all this as if Jen's not even there, but what else can they do? It's not like Jensen doesn't know damn well what happens when he ducks in his shell. The world goes on around him. "He'll be okay in there by himself?" Jared asks, looking both younger than his years as well as naïve. "I mean, it's slippery and all. Showers are. Usually." 

It's a worthwhile point. Steve's about to volunteer to help strip Jen down, prop him up, wash him off, whatever, when Jared swoops the wind out of his sails. "Don't yell at me, okay? But might as well kill two birds with one stone. I could get in there with him. Warm us both up at the same time." 

If Chris were here, he'd snatch Jared bald for making the offer, regardless of how well it addresses the situation, and so it's got to be Lucifer himself who prompts Steve to answer, with a smile that's not entirely forced, "Yeah, all right. Go ahead. Holler if you need anything." 

"Where will you be?" 

"Taking care of Hannah." 

That answer suits Jared. "Okay. Hey, Steve?" 

"What?" 

Jared's grin surprises him. "Thanks." 

Steve shifts his weight to the other foot and clears his throat. "Um. You're welcome." 

*~*~* 

**Ten Years Ago:**

"They won't let me see him." 

"They're not letting anyone see him," Steve says quietly, and it's true, they aren't. His parents are serving as legal guardians while Jen's folks are out of the country; his dad's off trying to track them down on the phone and his momma's crying on some nurse's shoulder. 

As for the two of them, at first the nurses tried shuffling he and Chris off to a hole-in-the-wall waiting room, but there's no one can make Chris sit still and act right for any reason. Since no one's trying to kick them out of the hallway outside where they're still treating Jen, he figures the nurses have learned that particular lesson. 

Chris is pissed, mad, wound up tight enough to go pop and hot enough in his temper to burn them all. As for Steve, he's cold. Been holding the same Dixie cup of weak vending machine coffee for half an hour now, not drinking a sip. 

"Why not?" Chris blusters. "It's not like he's even bleedin' or busted up or whatever. He's just got a sore or… or… or something. I dunno. It's not a big deal." 

"He says he can't see anything, Chris." 

Chris's jaw works, ugly. "He's just lookin' for attention, is all." 

"Jen doesn't do that." He knows Chris isn't listening. He's mostly talking for the sake of hearing himself think. 

"He can see _fine_ ," Chris insists. "I'm gonna ask again. Maybe they'll let me in now."   
Steve chews at the inside of his cheek before even that can't hold it back, what he's got to say: "Chris, I think this might have started back after, you know, after the lightning thing. I was reading in an old journal at the library --" 

Chris's head snaps up; he stares at Steve in bafflement rapidly transitioning to rage. "Wait a minute. You thought something was wrong? You thought, and you didn't say? _Asshole._ "   
_You wouldn't have listened, and neither would he,_ is what Steve wants to say, but he's got a handle on himself again, and so he doesn't. 

"It'll be okay," he offers instead, knowing it's weak and helpless, but it's what Chris wants -- needs -- to hear. If he thinks this is his fault in any way, and it is what they're afraid of, he'll -- he'll -- Steve doesn't know. Maybe he'll go jump off a water tower or something.   
He's lost enough. Doesn't want to lose more. "Jen'll be fine," he says, barely louder than a whisper. 

Chris spares him one last glare before starting to pace the clinic hallway again, the floors spotless but the air still smelling as much of piss as it does of bleach. "He better be. Damn well better be." 

But he's not. 

*~*~*

**Now:**

_Thunk!_

This is getting to be a habit. Steve puts down the coffeemaker basket, loose grounds chaffing in the metal filter. "What did you run into now?" he calls. 

"Nothing. Sorry. I knocked the shower door with my elbow." 

Might as well offer again. "Sure you don't want any help?" 

"We're good, thanks." 

It's a dismissal, and usually he takes those as tacit permission to get on with his own business. So he doesn't exactly know why he scoots forward, silent on his own sock feet after he kicked his own boots off at the edge of the kitchen, and watches them. 

They're both still in their underwear, though otherwise naked. Jared's a boxers man, and Jensen has his jockey shorts. Given how thin the boxers and how tight Jensen's shorts are in turn, it's fairly obvious both men are still cold. 

Jared figures out the shower door and pushes it rattling to the side. He helps Jensen in, Jensen starting to wake up and respond now. That's a good sign. "Which spigot is for the hot water?" 

"On the left," Steve replies absently. Jared's either a moron for not stripping them down completely or a genius or maybe just shy, he's not sure which. Out of his clothes, Jared's physique is startling. The loose fit of his various layers makes him look like a skinny kid, which he really, really isn't. 

He's never seen feet quite that big. The guy must have to wear NBA castoffs or something. 

Jared figures out the taps and sends the warm water cascading down over both their heads. He draws the door to, but as it's semi-translucent Steve still has a decent view. He sees for himself how Jared cups a man's face in his hands when he kisses him, engulfing him almost completely, and how he's taller enough than Jen that he's got to hunch down as if Jen's a girl. How Jen tilts his face up right away, no wary questions or hesitation. The way Jared's hand skates down the line of Jensen's back. 

There's nothing here any sane man would call skirting the borders of what's proper and what isn't. It's comfort, is all, no more meaning to it than holding his hand and saying out loud that he'll be okay. 

Or that's what he'll tell Chris, at least, if Chris ever finds out. Serve him right. 

*~*~* 

This? This is a bad, bad, bad idea. Lord and Jared both know it. But he can't seem to stop now he's started, one palm on each side of Jensen's face, tasting his lips. Jensen's warming up under the hot shower, his goosebumps already fading and his skin pinking up. Jared shivers as Jensen's still-cold fingers skitter clumsily over Jared's stomach and then his hips, finding a place to hold on. 

He doesn't push for anything more, and Jared's glad. This, he's okay with, just warming wet skin and the faint brush of Jensen's breath over his lips. Spiky eyelashes over blank green irises and the first hint of a smile on his kiss-bruised lips, tilting up the corners. 

"Hey. You in there?" Jared asks, feathering the balls of his thumbs over Jensen's cheekbones. 

A drop of water dribbles from Jensen's hair down his cheek; he licks it away from his lips and swallows, nodding a bare inch. "More than I was. Almost," he says hoarsely. He laughs, and it's broken but it's a start.   
"Are you still going to respect me in the morning?" 

"Don't even joke," Jared says, meaning that for once in his life. He kisses Jensen again to swallow down even the echo. 

*~*~* 

Steve turns away, nearly tripping over Hannah. She's sitting woefully in the middle of the kitchen, wet tail whipping the linoleum. Her food dish is conspicuously empty. 

"Bet Jen forgot to feed you earlier, huh?" He extends his fingers for Hannah to sniff. Her tongue is slimy-wet over the thin white scars. "Okay, fine. You want a can of the good stuff?" 

Hannah yips, ears perking. 

"Good girl, Lassie." Steve rolls his eyes as he opens the proper cabinet, finding right away the three cans of Purina that, if the airbrushed pictures on their glossy labels is anything to go by, probably tastes better than many a meal he's scraped together for himself in days gone by. 

"Chicken and rice with fresh garden peas," he reads, shaking his head. "Whatever happened to Alpo?" 

The can is one of the sort with a ring-pull tab on it. Steve pries the edge of the tab up easily enough, but when he tries to push his finger through and pull, his joint seizes up on him. He drops the can, hissing quietly. Hannah howls. The shower water patters on uninterrupted by anyone asking what that racket was. 

Steve crouches, picks up the can and tries again, working until he's got it and she's taken care of before he tends to himself. 

He's getting tired of doing that. 

*~*~* 

Jared's voice rises incoherently over the running water in the shower. He sounds like he's trying to sing, "trying" being the operative word. Also, "failing". Ouch. Steve pauses to wonder what kind of havoc he'd wreak with a guitar. 

Damn, it's been a long, long time since he tried to play anything. Memories of honey-toned wood and mellow notes draw him to a shudder. He curls his fingers into a fist, lightly stroking the white lines, hearing long-ago strings snapping all over again. 

_You know better,_ he tells himself, shaking it off. There's enough troubles in one day and on their way to go borrowing from the past. 

Maybe he should eat. When he was a kid, the old folks always used to say a hot meal fixed almost everything. Which is bullshit, but still, he's hungry, so why not? 

Cracking open Jensen's refrigerator serves to wobble his world a little further aslant. There's hamburger in Jen's fridge. He blinks at it, wondering if it's a mirage. Jen hasn't eaten meat in at least five years, at least as far as he's aware. Chris would've mentioned any hopes of his returning to carnivore status. Would already be buying beer for a cook-out. Can't be that. Where did he get it? When? 

Must have been secreted amongst the stuff Jeff brought when he came over to bandage Jen's hands properly. Steve didn't look through the old plastic A & P sack Jeff dropped in the kitchen, and after Jeff took off he himself was on his way out the back way, headed home for a nap before work.   
Red meat. Damn. He guesses Jen planned to try the spaghetti thing again, hopefully without bloodshed this time. It's funny the way life works out sometimes. 

Steve opens the pack of hamburger meat and finds a skillet. Jen might object, once he comes to. Let him. Right now, there are empty stomachs to be dealt with. And other hungers. 

Soup. They could have soup, too. Steve turns on the forgotten coffeemaker and breathes deeply of the cheap ground-roasted smell. 

He scolds Hannah quietly for whining and begging and getting underfoot while he cooks. Her appetite doesn't match her capacity, but she forgets that. From time to time. 

*~*~* 

"Hey. Don't." Jared catches Jensen's hand as it starts to go wandering a little further afield than just the notch of his hipbone. If the day ever comes that Jensen offers him this when he's not half out of his mind on one trip or another, then maybe. Not until then, though. 

Jensen head-butts his chest, whining quietly. 

"Damn, man. I know I'm sexy, but --" 

"Shut up," Jensen whispers, rising up to press their mouths briefly together. He goes back down with a shudder. "Is it too messed up, now? To even…?" 

He'd like to say he isn't sure -- he really isn't. And it's still tempting to get in his truck and drive. He's not, though, and he isn't. He traces the line of Jensen's nose instead, from the bridge between his eyes to the tip -- if he wasn't so pale, he might freckle -- and comes back around to cup the back of Jensen's head, tilting their foreheads together. "Naw," is all he says, his throat empty of other words for once. "No." 

"Okay." Jensen rolls his forehead against Jared's. "What now?" 

Jared's stomach rumbles. They both laugh, Jared thinking Jensen might be just as glad of the distraction as he is. "Food?" he asks, hopeful. 

"I could eat. Maybe sleep some first, though." Jensen finds Jared's forearm and squeezes it clumsily. He's not saying the exact words, but Jared hears his _thank you_ all the same. 

He squeezes back, chafing Jensen's skin and using the slick sensation to help him stubbornly block out the _how did we get to this?_ questions. For now. 

*~*~* 

**Ten Years Ago:**

Steve hammers on his cousin's bedroom door, a small room tucked well away in the back of the house. He'd fought Jensen for the privilege -- it's private and quiet, almost hidden away -- and lost. Kid has a mean right hook. "If you're not down for lunch in ten minutes, they're going to give it to the dogs." That's the threat he was told to deliver; he could have told them it wouldn't work. Jen eats like a bird is supposed to eat, which is to say almost not at all, and if he's had anything over the past day and a half, Steve hasn't seen it happen. 

Which is why he's bothering. Jensen hides like a spooked kitten sometimes, but he's done a lot better since he came to stay here. Steve thinks about the way Chris and Jen are always tied at the hip, and although he's not sure why that bothers him, he just knows it does. 

Chris hasn't come around since the night they chased the storm and it caught them instead, nearly six days ago. He wonders if maybe that's what's bothering Jen this time. 

"Hey! You okay in there?" He turns the knob and sneaks a look inside. 

At first, he doesn't see Jensen. He smells him, unwashed for a few days -- actually, he's not sure for how long -- and something else, yeasty and strange. 

When he lights on Jensen, his relief shifts fast into worry. Jen's sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, facing a warped old full-length mirror that got tucked away back here because it turns reflections green. His head's down and his hands are nigh welded to the top of his scalp. 

"Hey." He tries to play it cool, even though he's freaking out on the inside. There's just something _wrong_ here. Keeps it up, too, until he's plunked down beside Jen and wrinkled his nose at the increasing strength of the weird smell. He elbows Jensen, careful not to go too rough. "What's up, man? Chris didn't ask you to be his girl, did he?" 

He gets no response, and that's the last straw. Come on, he all but out-and-out called them gay. That ought to have had Jensen up in arms, ready to box him. "You're scaring me, man. Look at me." 

Jensen hunches in tighter on himself. 

"Uh-uh. You look at me right the fuck now." Steve takes him by the chin and wrenches his head up, turning him so that they're face to face. 

His eyes. Aw, _fuck_. Almost stuck shut with watery matter and… 

He's on the phone to 9-1-1 less than a minute later, would have been seconds if his hands hadn't been shaking so damn much. The operator asks how long Jensen's been like this; he hears her stern disapproval when he tells her, and understands that it's his fault for not making a fuss earlier. He should have known better. 

Steve swears to himself and promises God that if this gets fixed, he'll never not pay attention to small details again, not even when they're the last things he wants to see. 

*~*~* 

**Now:**

He's kept that promise to himself, he thinks as he takes down three mugs, two plain plus Jensen's favorite bright green pottery one, fetches yellow soup bowls and spoons and Saltines. People who knew everything, all the ins and outs, would look at him and think "clueless" or maybe even "there are none so blind as they who will not see", if they were of a poetic and/or ironic turn of mind. 

They'd be wrong. He knows _exactly_ how his world works, and all the motivations of the players who move in and out. He knows he's second best and always has been, a last-minute replacement because the game had to go on. He knows, and for a long time that was fine by him. If you don't have ambitions, you can't be disappointed, and just as Chris does every damn thing for the sake of his guilt, Steve guesses -- no, he's sure of it -- that it's the same for him. 

He barely glances up as Jared hauls Jensen out into the main room and deposits him on the couch, where Steve has covered the wet spots up with that quilt. Hannah, toweled as dry as he could get her, lies at the far end with her nose on her paws. She wags her tail hopefully when she sees Jared coming. Jensen's mostly dry too except for his hair, and he's dressed in a mismatched set of sleep pants and flannel shirt Jared no doubt grabbed at random with no thought for the careful ordering of the closet. Jared himself looks pretty damn comical in a plaid shirt and a pair of track shorts. Both sets of feet are bare, picking up a dusting of sand as they walk. 

"I couldn't find any socks," Jared apologizes, carefully arranging Jen on the couch. Jen looks to be hazy still but more like a sleepy child than a zombie so Jared seems to be doing a decent job of handling him. It makes no sense to Steve how someone so random and touchy-feely could possibly be good for Jen, let alone not send him running, but what the hell does he know? 

He wonders what happened in the shower, knowing it's not his business but not letting that stop him. Likely not much of anything worth note. Jen's lips aren't swollen, so he doubts there was even much vanilla kissing. 

That's good. Or not. 

Jared clears his throat, grimacing as if he's embarrassed. "Do you want me to go back and hunt for some?" 

Jesus. The kid's still fixated on _socks_. "Don't bother. He likes going barefoot inside." The hamburger he's fixing for himself is almost done, still a little pink in the middle, the way he likes it best. 

Jared's stomach rumbles. He sniffs the air. 

"Made you two some soup," Steve offers, jabbing the spatula handle in the direction of the gently steaming pot. "Vegetable stew. Bowls are over there. And coffee, if you want." 

"Thanks." Jared casts a yearning glance at the hamburger but doesn't ask if he can have one, too. He obediently dishes up the Campbell's, two bowls full. He only spills a little. Instead of carrying it over to Jensen, though, so they can eat before it gets cold, he puts them on the table and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks young again, prompting Steve to wonder exactly how old he is. Probably three or four years less than Jensen, at least. 

"Something on your mind?" 

Jared exhales through his nose. He picks at a strand of hair plastered wetly to his cheek, tugging the wave straight. "Look," he begins slowly. "Can we step outside for a minute?" 

Steve frowns, glancing at Jensen. He looks a lot better, some color in his cheeks and sitting easily, one foot tucked underneath him, half-nodding-off on the couch. "Something wrong?" he asks quietly. 

Jared shrugs. "He's mostly asleep, but I don't… I need to ask you something, and I don't want to right in front of him." 

_Here it comes,_ Steve thinks, resigned. Romeos generally hit the road once they stumble into the worst of this mess, whether it happens sooner or later. 

"All right," he says, leading the way. Jared pauses long enough to awkwardly pat Jensen's shoulder; Steve can't make out the dozy mumble Jensen responds with. 

The storm's eased up for now, rain still falling, but lazily, taking its time. Steve's seen enough beach weather to know it's not over yet. The lull suits him well enough right now, the rain noisy enough to shelter their conversation yet quiet enough that he can hear himself think out on the porch. He waits for Jared to catch up with him and then shuts the door behind them. "So what do you want to know?" 

Thanks be for small mercies; Jared comes right to the point even if he does fidget and chafe his hand over his jaw. "Look, I don't… it's not my business why or when or what happened wherever. I know that." 

"But?" 

"Don't make this easy on me." Jared pulls an uncomfortable frown. "I need to know if any of this is my fault. That's all." 

" _Your_ fault?" Steve repeats. The kid's serious, and gets annoyed as all hell when Steve loses it. He has to wave Jared quiet and back away, he's so shook up with laughing and shaking, damn tremors like his hands get sometimes that won't stop. 

"Don't laugh at me." 

"I won't laugh at you if you don't try and pull the scary face on me." He wipes his eyes, careful of his greasy fingers. Breathing takes a minute to calm down, and while he's waiting he examines Jared narrowly, cataloguing him from head to toe, drawing check marks and X's on a mental tally. There are more question marks than he'd like when he's done, and instead of having his cool back he's lost, still, having to fight back a spurt of words and not sure he wants to. 

Jared waits, pissy as a scorned pup. 

"You want to know if it's your fault. That's not really the question, is it? You want to know what happened to make him scared of storms. Did he say something?" 

"He told me about the last thing he saw. How it was lightning. And fire." 

"Huh." Steve rolls that around in his head. 

Jensen wasn't telling the exact truth as Steve remembers it, but he's not sure he'll tell Jared that. The last thing he's always thought Jensen saw was his own reflection in a warped green mirror, and he's not sure he'll tell about _that_ , either. 

_Flash-burned retinas_ , the one doctor who'd talk to him said. _Secondary bacterial infection. Did he get any dirt in his eyes when you fell? Conjunctivitis. Combined, they --_

_That's pinkeye, Chris protested. You don't go blind from fuckin' **pinkeye**. _

_You can, sometimes, if it's untreated,_ she said _. Why didn't you come in right away?_

Maybe he's the one who's wrong, after all. 

*~*~* 

**Ten Years Ago, The End of the World:**

"Fuck me." Chris raises his head from his crossed arms, where his hid his eyes after they hit the dirt running. His ears are still ringing loudly enough that he almost misses hearing Chris; he'd still be able to tell from the look on his face. Steve can see the whites of his eyes clear around the irises, startling in the grimy sweat smeared over his face. This close, he can smell the whiskey still on his breath. "That fucker was close." 

"No kidding." Their hair is lying down now, mostly, no longer wispy around their temples as a dandelion gone to seed. If he hadn't known that, they might not have gotten as far away as they did before the lightning touched down. Too close. Way too damn close. "That's it, man. I'm going back. You want to stay out here and act the fool, be my guest." 

"Uh-uh. Too sober for that now." Chris's grin lacks its usual snark. "Jen, c'mon. Best we move." 

Only Jensen doesn't answer. 

They find him unconscious far too close to the smoky, charred ground where the lightning struck, his breathing shallow. Chris slaps him hard enough to leave finger-shaped welts under mud-smeary handprints before he groans and comes around, blinking and then staring vacantly like he's just looked into the sun and can't see anything for the brightness of the light. 

"Think we ought to take him to the hospital?" he asks, helping Jensen stand. Not an easy task; he's not helping them at all at first. "Chris! Should we?" 

Chris shakes his head. "No, man, no way." He checks Jen's eyes himself, prying one lid and then the other wide open with dirty fingers, leaving streaks of mud behind. "He looks fine to me. Besides, they'd know we were drinkin'. We get in trouble like that, they'll send me off to the army and you to the navy and God knows where Jen would end up. You know it's true," he insists when Steve hesitates, still not sure if that's enough to stop them. "Steve. Come on. Don't tell. Promise me?" 

"I'm fine," Jensen rouses himself enough to slur. "Would you let go of me? I'm not a baby." 

"Then pick up your feet and walk," Steve scoffs even as Chris whoops, pounds him on the back and applauds, _that's my boy, Jenny_. 

Jensen's eyes are bleary when he grins at Steve, but they're green and they're still happy from adrenaline and booze. He wipes away smears of grime. "Don't worry about me. I'm good, I swear." 

He's not quite focused. No one thinks anything about that for some time, maybe not even Jensen himself. Steve never asked. 

*~*~* 

**Now:**

He wishes he had asked. Massaging each stiff, sore finger in its turn, he weighs the pros and cons of popping the cork and just telling Jared what happened. Sharing some of that burden. 

But it's not his story to tell. So he won't. 

"Ask him yourself, when he's better," he says shortly, turning away. 

Jared wrinkles his forehead, lips pursed. He's about to say something when Steve's phone vibrates in his pocket. He holds up one finger in the universal "hang on a second" sign and turns his back to take the call. He knows before he checks the screen who it'll be. 

He answers anyway. "I'm here," he says before Chris can start. "Jen's okay." 

Chris's exhale is shaky with relief. "Okay, good," he rasps. "Stay with him until I get there, okay? Might not be too long now. Storm's letting up, looks like." 

"Maybe there. Not here." The rain pounds down without surcease. 

"It'll pass by soon." 

"Maybe." 

Chris is silent; Steve knows he's confused him. Steve doesn't _do_ possibles. He _knows_ , and he keeps it all tucked away.   
Steve waits for Chris to ask him if he's okay, himself, or even to thank him, but he doesn't. 

"I'll be there soon," is what Chris says instead. 

"I thought you might be," Steve says, and disconnects without saying goodbye. 

"Who was that?" Jared asks right away, as Steve would have thought he'd do. "If it's Chris, he can kiss my ass before I leave Jen alone tonight, at least." 

"Wasn't anyone important," Steve replies, not really listening. He never changed out of his own wet clothes, too busy with picking up the pieces, and there's a torn-off scrap of paper in the pocket, where it was protected by his windbreaker, still mostly dry. There's a shred of paper with a phone number on it in his pocket, with a cell number on it, written in cheap blue ink from a ballpoint Alan borrowed from him. He rubs the paper between finger and thumb, and listens to the rain fall. 

If he closes his eyes, he can still smell lightning that's ten years gone by. 

*~*~* 

"Jared?" Jensen half-turns toward him. He smiles. "Hey." 

"Damn it, I didn't mean to wake you. Sorry."

"S'okay." Jensen's smile breaks on a yawn. "What's goin' on? Where's Steve?"

"Steve. He, uh…" Jared hesitates, recalling the oddness to Steve's voice and the stiffness of his posture when he took that phone call. Knowing he had to have been talking to Chris. The set to Steve's turned back had warned even him off after his first outburst when the call ended. It's the stance of a man who's dangerous to be around right now, maybe even more so than Chris in a mood. Quiet, as Jared knows, can be as deadly as loud. 

"Steve's chillin' on the porch," he says instead of answering properly, squirmy under his skin at the implied lie but he's too worn out to dive headfirst in another mess of issues tonight. "I figured I'd give him some peace and quiet. How'd you know it was me -- you recognized my gait?"

"Mm-hmm." Jensen stretches. "Are you heading upstairs now?"

Again, Jared pauses, and again, he goes with his gut. "Nah. Not yet. I'm gonna sit down by you. Okay?" 

Jensen nods, and Jared gratefully collapses by his side. "The quilt Steve spread over the couch isn't doing a great job at blocking the moisture from the soaked cushions but he doesn't much care; he's too tired to be bothered. Grumbling, he drops his head to Jensen's shoulder and rolls his forehead over the joint. 

After a moment, Jensen lightly rests his hand on Jared's head, sifting through the still-wet tangles of his hair. He takes in a shallow breath as if he means to say something, stops, then does it again. 

Jared leans more heavily into Jensen's side and reaches across to rest a palm on the knee furthest away from him, crisscrossing the two of them together. 

Asking Jen if he's okay would be stupid, as it would for Jensen to ask him, though it's hard not to ask for a comforting lie. He guesses this whole thing's not about being _easy_ , though, is it? 

So he keeps quiet, as does Jensen. Their breathing falls into a point-counterpoint rhythm and their hands still, each shifting a tad this way and that until suddenly they're somehow curled up together like puppies in a pile. A couple of those wild alley mongrels, maybe, who'll bite you if you go too fast, who'll turn and run when they spook, but who could maybe be coaxed to linger a while. 

Jensen falls asleep before he does, and that's fine. The rain's soothing now, lulling him into a decent rest, and he's comfortable here with Jen. 

There's no telling what tomorrow will bring, no way, but he'll be here to try and sort out the tangles and for once in his life he's not scared of it. 

He drifts off peacefully after thinking so and sleeps until dawn with Jensen warm against him, and if he has any nightmares about this hell of a day, he doesn't remember them when morning comes.


End file.
